


The stories you tell, with eyes crafted of silver and words laced with gold.

by Catherines_Collections



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Human, Fairy Tale Elements, Gen, Hunter Arthur, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mythology - Freeform, Native American Mythology - Freeform, Wendigo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-14 19:21:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8025907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catherines_Collections/pseuds/Catherines_Collections
Summary: There are stories of the woods; stories of carnivorous beast who steal away children, of monsters that hide in the shadows, waiting and prowling.





	The stories you tell, with eyes crafted of silver and words laced with gold.

**Author's Note:**

> So I've had this story in my mind and on my laptop forever. I got this idea from two authors and they are such inspirations! I own nothing, please enjoy:)!

There are stories of the woods; stories of carnivorous beast who steal away children, of monsters that hide in the shadows, waiting and prowling. 

There are signs and echoes and stories each more colorful than the next. Reported sightings of inhuman beast wondering forests and scheduled searches in order to ensure the safety of the town’s people.

Arthur sits alone inside of his cabin buried deep in the wood and draws no unnecessary attention to himself.

He has never been one to tempt the fates. 

.

He was raised on tales of fae and magic born from earth. Stories of kings with golden hair and charming smiles who eventually, like the other mortals of the land, fell to the creatures that possessed magic and henceforth the earth. 

Stories of curses and monsters, stories reserved for older children. Stories, and legends, and myths. Tales to keep children in their beds and keep young women and men from wondering. Stories told as undeniable truths.

He would dream of the creatures and wonder what power would feel like beating through his heart, wonder what it would feel like to posses magic or gifts. What power would feel like running through his veins in place of fear.

He was raised with a gun in his hand and magic in his heart.

.

There are howls at night and he tries his best not to think on how human they sound. 

He tries his hand at sleep but eventually surrenders and heads to his kitchen cabinet, where a bottle of bitter memories await him. He doesn’t hesitate to bring the bottle to his lips.

It’s over, he thinks. He walks and mentally repeats the mantra ignoring the sounds echoing outside.

I’m done.  
.

There is a boy standing at his door.

He is young and blonde and Arthur is much too tired to handle the pure sincerity leaking from his eyes. He says he is looking for his brother, having gone missing a few months ago while hunting. Word of a hunting accident had spread south recently and he had come in search.

“He has violet eyes and curly blonde hair close to the shade of mine, in case you see him.” He offers, the nervous smile not leaving him until Arthur shakes his head and mumbles that he has not seen the other boy.

He offers an apology as the boy leaves shoulders shaking. But a there is fire in the sapphire of his eyes that outshines the shaking of his body. 

Arthur watches him go as the door shuts and the house fills with silence.

.

The howls get worse, stories of missing children travel down west, causing mothers to set stricter curfews and fathers to sharpen their knives. 

Arthur relies on his bottles, but then again he has always relied on his bottles. 

Sobriety brings on too many times he refuses to remember.

.

After five bottles, books skewed around sloppily, and a not so forgotten promise Arthur begins to wonder if he should finally leave his cabin.

The thought alone sends him running to the bathroom hand grasping at his mouth.

.

There are tales of guns and boys much too young holding them.

Four boys, each with a different hair shade, each a different attitude, all standing aligned and playing with one another. 

The oldest ruffles the second oldest hair, and the third nudges the fourth to keep him awake. A sound comes from the bushes and play time ends quicker than it began.

Four boys take aim, the oldest ten the youngest six, and slaughter monsters in the dark.

Or so the tale goes.  
.

There is not a knock this time but a kick, then a punch, and repeat until Arthur finally musters up the care to face his visitor. 

He looks outside his window and something he hasn’t felt in a long time envelops him. He stares through the fragile glass serving as a barrier between him and the creature standing on the opposite side.

Lavender eyes stare into his soul; a mouth holding jagged razors lies just below them. Its skin is rotten and worn and there are misshapen antlers atop its head. 

Arthur swallows dryly and remains perfectly still; eerie calmness consumes him as he watches the creature. After minutes that feel like hours the creature leaves. Its footsteps leave imprints in the ground and it weaves itself between the tress of the forest, branches being crushed in its wake. 

The creature disappears and when he can move again Arthur shuts his door.

He does not allow himself the opportunity to question long before he heads to his library in search for a particular book.

.

He drinks, prepares, and repeats. It’s a two day process.

It’s a Sunday when he finally musters the nerve to head into town and invites the blonde with the burning eyes over. 

.

He pulls out the book tenderly, sickening nostalgia and anguish fueling his movements, and places it in front of his guest. The boy, Alfred’s, look is curious if not a little suspicious.

Arthur turns to the page he had earlier marked and points to the title. Alfred scrunches his nose, “A Wendigo?” he asks disbelief clouding his voice. Though the disbelief melts into horror when he sees the pityingly honest expression on Arthur’s face.

.

The book is slammed to the ground, denial a heavy tone in the room. Arthur cannot bring himself to feel anything other than pity at the situation and that of course is of no help.

Alfred storms out after the explanation of how such a creature came to be; rage consuming every inch of his being. He turns back and screams so loud the snow shakes, he shouts louder seemingly hoping to cause an avalanche. 

“He’s my brother!” He screams and his voice breaks from the countless too heavy emotions it holds.

Without another sound he vanishes. Arthur sinks against his door and tries his hardest not to think.

.

Mathew, he thinks staring into his fireplace.

His name was Mathew  
.

The creature never returns to his house. Stories travel of a bright blue eyed boy with blonde hair who went searching, but nothing comes of them.

He never sees Alfred again.

He never sets eyes on Mathew. 

He dumps out the remains of his bottles in the kitchen sink and screams.

.

There was once a tale of four young boys with hearts made of steel for anything other than each other. They were bound by blood and the promise of protection held within it.

They lived for each other and they killed for others.

As fate would have it, it is the second eldest who goes first. At the young age of thirteen he is hit by a stray bullet that lands in his thigh, severing an artery, and leaving him to bleed out before his brothers.

(The oldest swears to carry them on with tears dripping from his chin, and the other boys follow their leader.)

The oldest is next. He is fifteen on his first solo hunt when the prey becomes the predator. They find what is left of his corpse hanging from a tree.

(We’ll carry on, promises the third eldest but there is fear in his eyes that was not there before. The youngest follows his leader.)

The third dies by his own hand months later at the age of fourteen. The youngest finds him hanging above his other brothers graves. He screams until his lungs give out and sobs until his tears run dry.

When the youngest rises from the ground he does not feel fiery furry or ice cold sadness. He feels nothing but the metal of his gun and the size of his bullets as he shuffles them in his small rough hands. 

When he finally looks away from the last of his brothers all he sees is darkness and wood.

Or so the legend goes.

.

It’s half a moon later, another dead child report, and a proper bottle of whiskey when Arthur grabs his gun and begins fulfilling his promise.

He’s a fool for ever thinking he could forget it.

The moon is new and he silently thanks anyone listening for the blessing of a dark night. He holds a tool in his hands that he hasn’t in over a decade, one that holds far more than just bullets, and laughs incredulously as he heads out of his home.

Somewhere along the way messy laughter morphs into somthing more maddening, but he doesn’t care. His mind already has something to fixate on.

Mathew, he remembers. 

The name bringing with it the image of a heart-shattered blonde screaming at dead snowy landscape: He’s my brother!

There will always be times he will regret ignoring his promise, and this time will not be his last. 

He cocks his gun and heads further out into the unknown.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Comments and Kudos are greatly appreciated! You can follow me on tumblr as rhymesofblue if you want to talk prompts or come chill.


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